


Blindfold (In the Darkness Bind Me)

by BaredWolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Job, Dom!Cas, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, PWP, Rimming, Senses, Sub!Dean, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaredWolf/pseuds/BaredWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t that he likes hurting you; it isn’t that you like being hurt. It’s that he needs to claim you, and you need to be claimed. Silently, in the darkness, he binds you to him with a hundred, a thousand tiny bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blindfold (In the Darkness Bind Me)

It’s well past midnight a rush of air wakes you: he has arrived. Sleep-deadened limbs weigh heavily on the mattress: you don’t move. It’s partly because you’re still waking up, still so sleepy, and partly because that is how this works. This is part of the agreement between the two of you. 

Because neither of you can simply take what you want, because neither of you can ever feel worthy of possessing it free and clear. 

So you make it messy, draw lines in the sand. You have rules, and you both obey them. 

You stay still, pillow wrapped in your arms; you could still be asleep (as if you could possibly still be asleep). These are the rules. You listen as cloth rustles, soft thumps of garments collapsing to the floor, discarded with the abandon of someone who has never once had to iron a suit. You hope he keeps the tie: you like when he uses the tie. 

You count the items of clothing that drop to the floor by their sounds. Sometimes, he doesn’t remove any. Tonight, he has removed them all. You don’t wonder what this means, you simply thrill in anticipation. 

He can make his footfalls silent when he chooses, but you hear him pad softly to stand next to your bed. If you opened your eyes, you might see him. But there are rules, so you do not. 

A fingertip traces your cheekbone, trails down your spine. You try to keep your breathing even as he pulls back the blanket. He grips your shoulder, hand laying over the old scar, and a shiver runs through your body. 

You can smell him, this close, feel the warmth radiating off of his skin in the cool room. He smells of sweet skin and musk and sex and something unearthly for which you have never found a name. You breathe deeply, filling your senses with his scent. 

Fingertips brush over your eyelids. _Open your eyes_. The command is unspoken, but you obey before your brain even processes the touch. It is absolutely dark in here: no windows to let in streetlight or starlight, no stray gleam of lamplight seeping beneath the door. You still cannot see, but you know that he can see you. He wants your eyes open so that you cannot deny this reality. His sight is power; he has power and you are powerless. 

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone again, palm rasping in your stubble. His hand runs up to the top of your head, strokes through your hair. 

You stay absolutely still. These are the rules. 

His hand trails down your back, possessive over the bare skin. He grips your ass, digs in his fingernails, marking you. 

_Mine_. 

_Yours_.

He taps a finger against your tailbone, another command. You draw your legs under you, raising your ass in the air. Presenting to him. _Yours, anything you want_. 

The bed barely shifts as he climbs on, kneels behind you. Memory foam: the things this bed would remember. Fingers trail up the back of one thigh, his touch feather light. He pinches at the crease where your thigh meets your ass, brushes his hand up over the marks his fingernails left. 

You have rules, but so does he. Tonight, you both have to be quiet; you are not the bunker’s only occupants. Tonight, he is not allowed to spank you. If he had his way (if you had your way) he would do that now. But tonight he cannot, so he settles for pinching you, trailing little sparks of pain over your thighs and ass, smoothing a palm over to soothe the fire, following no pattern you can predict. 

It isn’t that he likes hurting you; it isn’t that you like being hurt. It’s that he needs to claim you, and you need to be claimed. Silently, in the darkness, he binds you to him with a hundred, a thousand tiny bruises. 

_Mine_.

 _Yours_.

He leans over you, the pressure of his body assuaging the burn of your skin, his cock slotting against your crack. Teeth. He bites along your shoulders, sucks at the skin. Marks you again, more, always so possessive. You relax, paradoxically comforted by the pain, soothed by the control you have turned over to him. The world narrows to the feel of his body against yours, his nose nuzzling gently against the back of your neck before he bites over the knob of your spine. 

He wraps an arm around your chest, pulls you up so you are kneeling, back cradled against his solid strength. You grip the forearm that holds you tightly against him. He licks at your neck, trails kisses under your jaw, claims your mouth. You open to him, the taste of him a consuming sensation. 

As he breaks the kiss, a fingertip brushes your eyelid. You snap your eyes open; you cannot remember when you closed them. 

A hand grips your hip tightly as he lowers you back down to your elbows in front of him. He slides down your back, tongue tracing your spine, fingertips mapping muscle and bone. You are exposed to his view, every inch of you known and seen in a way that should terrify you. You give him this vulnerability; he revels in your trust. 

Fingers trace lightly over your hole, you barely manage to keep from twitching. You fist your hands in the sheets. His tongue begins a torturous tease, tracing circles, lapping gently, tiny soft little licks made even sweeter by the contrast of what came before. 

Your muscles lock; you are required to hold still, to be silent. You know the rules. You know what happens if you break them. 

He continues, teasing the tip of his tongue to your entrance. Your breathing is uneven, ragged. He knows exactly how to take you apart like this (you feel yourself coming undone). He presses his thumbs to the edges of your hole, gently opens you to him. He probes deeper with his tongue, alternating teasing circles with soft laps and squirming thrusts until you are completely lost in the sensation. 

A slick finger presses, breaches your entrance, slips inside you. 

You press back onto it, whine with shocked pleasure. 

A moment of weakness, but the rules are clear. He withdraws, no longer touching you anywhere. You ache, hard and heavy and dripping between your legs. You remain frozen, slowing your breaths, trying to be as quiet as possible. 

You don’t know how much time passes in the dark. Your body starts to hurt from holding the position. You retreat into that fuzzy space in your head that belongs to him: what you want no longer matters, though you are still achingly hard. He will tell you when to move again, will guide you to release. There is nothing for you to do but follow his rules. You stay still, silent. 

A warm hand brushes your skin: you had not realized how cold you were, exposed to the air like this. A thumb brushes your entrance, shooting pleasure through your veins. A pinch on the back of your thigh, over the top of another where a bruise is already starting to form. 

You were trusted to remain still before now, but you violated that trust. So the rules change. You feel a silky length of cloth drape across your hips. You bring your arms behind you, gripping opposite elbows as your forehead presses into the mattress. He winds and knots the length around your forearms: firm, but not tight. One hand grips your arms over the fabric of his tie, thumb rubbing soothing circles. He knows you will not forget again. 

(Sometimes you do forget again, sometimes you do it on purpose because you need more. Sometimes he wraps you in ribbons like a present, bound helpless to his power. He knows how ropes affect you, knows they push you to a place he cannot reach, the grating fibers against your skin sucking you down, down. He knows, so he never uses ropes. You like it best when he uses his tie, and he knows this too.)

A slippery finger circles your entrance, presses in easily. The smooth glide feels like lube; he has produced it from somewhere. You are grateful: sometimes, when you are bad, he will skip this part. He knows you can take it. The finger withdraws. You almost feel disappointment before you remember that it does not matter. He is wholly in control: he will take and you will give. These are the rules. 

A blunt pressure now, firmer and firmer until you accept him into you, helpless, pain slicing through you as he breaches you. A new kind of ache: you no longer need, you only burn. He releases his hold on your arms to fist a hand in your hair, pulling so your face is no longer buried, your weight on your shoulders and throat. 

It still hurts as he gives a small, tentative thrust. He tightens his grip in your hair: _yield_. You focus on relaxing, letting the pain round and smooth until he only feels like a thick intrusion. He thrusts slightly again, relaxes his grip on your hair. He turns your head as he releases you so your face is sideways: you are not allowed to make a sound, but he likes to see you. Likes to hear you breathe. His knuckles trace your jaw, fingertips smooth down your back.

He begins to move, hands gripping tightly on your hips: finger-shaped bruises that you will admire tomorrow. He takes his time, moves slowly in and out at a pace that is teasing to him, but builds only the barest of pleasure for you. It does not matter: he will take, and you will give. 

You do not know how long this continues: his stamina is literally supernatural. The world narrows to the ache in your shoulders, the sound of his breath, the deep slide of his thrusts that fill you so completely you are certain there is no room for anything else in your body, the throbbing that builds again between your legs. 

He presses his thumbs to either side of your hole, spreads you. You know he is watching, the way you swallow him greedily, the way you are puffed and red and abused from this torment. 

He runs a thumb gently over the flesh of your hip as he changes his angle, speeds his pace. You remember: he likes it when you like it too sometimes. That’s what this means, his thrusts sparking against the place that has you seeing colors dancing in the darkness. 

He pulls on your hips, inviting you to thrust back against him. You roll your hips, twisting in that way he loves, panting now as his strokes bring you closer, closer. 

He grips your shoulder with one hand, the other firm on your hip, stilling you as he begins to pound in earnest. Your legs are shaking: whether from exhaustion or from the pleasure wracking your body, you do not know. It does not matter. He will release you. 

Impossibly, he thrusts harder. A soft growl rumbles in his chest as his hips stutter, still as he pulls your hips so he is buried deep inside you as he comes, marking every part of you as his. The feeling of his cock thickening, pulsing as he bites at your bound arms nearly pushes you over the edge but you hold it off. There are still rules. He will take until he is finished, and you will give. 

He collapses on top of you, pressing the two of you flat to the mattress, his cock still twitching slightly inside of you. The pressure against your own aching cock is tempting: you want to rut down into it, know it would take almost nothing to get you off at this point. But there is something better coming if you just wait a little longer. 

He pulls out of you, off of you; you focus on the warm trickle that leaks from the emptiness he has left inside of you. 

Gentle hands unbind you, straighten your arms, let you stretch your shoulders and twist your neck to work out the kinks. He moves so he can reach the table; a warm cloth wipes the remaining traces of him away. He lifts you, lays you down on your back. You are still hard, waiting. He does not make you wait any longer. 

He runs his tongue hot and wet up your cock. You gasp, and he hums softly in approval as he sucks lightly at the head. Neither of you will speak, but he no longer requires your silence. He swallows down your length gently, the neglected flesh over-sensitive and desperate. Heat, wetness, suction: you are so lost to the sensation that you cannot discern his skilled movements, only the sweet slide in and out as you roll your hips up into his mouth, fingers carding through his hair. Distantly, you hear gasping, tiny moans escaping your lips. You feel the heat at the base of your spine cresting almost immediately, and you are not ashamed: he wants this, so you will give it to him. You come, and the blackness shatters to white as sweet heat consumes you entirely. 

You have no idea if you black out or not: when you open your eyes, it is still to total darkness. He is licking you clean, smoothing a hand up and down your side. 

He pulls the blankets around the two of you, tucks you against his body. 

He wraps you in his arms as you begin to shake, and you bury your head against his neck. He murmurs love into your ear. He holds you until you are lax in his arms. He kisses you, deeply, drugging and sweet. His lips are still against yours when sleep takes you.


End file.
